


Safeword

by Control_Room



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Choking, Injury, M/M, does not follow my other works, poor Grant, slight nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 06:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16258559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room
Summary: They didn't have a safeword.





	Safeword

**Author's Note:**

> this is not normally what i'd write, at all, but when inspiration comes in a dry time, you take it. also, i dont personally ship grant and joey, and this was heavily inspired by artwork by @ halfusek on tumblr.  
> take it, all ye sinners

They didn’t have a safeword.

 

They didn’t need one.

 

…

 

Or so Grant thought.

 

 _What would Joey think_?

 

Grant thought they were fine, his body on the fritz and his mind euphoric, and Joey seemed to get stress out and live out whatever he wanted on top of it, Grant helpless to stop it ~~and he didn’t really want to, either~~. It was fine, and it could have even been described as, well, good.

 

Oh, it was pure pleasure. Who would have ever thought that the life being slowly squeezed out of you would be the definition of _living_? Grant’s moans and whines muted by the fact he could neither get air in or out. Joey hissing angered comments, degrading him, and snapping at his skin, leaving red marks and bites. It was absolute joy and gratification (or, Grantification, ha).

 

Until it wasn’t.

 

They didn’t have a safeword.

 

They needed one.

 

Grant found that out.

 

_What would Joey think?!_

 

He was soaring, his lips tingling, his chest aching, and his body feeling Joey like hammer blows. The tie around his neck tightened further, him unable to gasp in any oxygen. Once more, it was constricted, Grant’s throat compressed, his mouth open in silent rapture. Then, it was too tight. His eyes snapped open, beholding Joey, in all his fury, glaring down at him. He couldn’t push him off, his hands tied behind his back with his own belt. He couldn’t kick him away, his legs tightly wrapped around the tall man and trembling like the devil.

 

And he couldn’t breathe.

 

For the first time in all of Joey’s “visits”, he truly began to feel scared. They had no safeword.

 

He tried to tell him to get off, to take off the tie, to stop pounding into him ( ~~_God, what was he_ **_doing!?_ ** _He was at_ **_work_ ** _, and this was his boss, and not just anyone, but_ **_Joey Drew_ ** _of all people!_ ~~ ), but all he managed was a weak, “-oey….” and he was slapped across the face, his glasses knocked askew.

 

“It’s Mr. Drew.”

 

Grant heard that through the rings and pounding in his ears, the last thing his flickering vision seeing was Joey’s vicious grin, toothy and wide. Maybe it was due to the lack of air, but Joey’s smile was too large and his teeth were too sharp. Blackness overtook him, dark ink.

 

His hands were trembling as he came back to life. The tie was still tight around his neck, breath coming in quick painful wheezes. He meant to tear it off in a panic, but his hands were still restrained behind his back, pain shooting through as they moved. Aching and sore, he slowly pulled his hands out from underneath himself, using his teeth to remove the belt. He then yanked off the tie, throwing it as far as he could. Grant gingerly pulled his pants up, feeling sticky and grotesque. He shivered, rubbing his arms. He didn’t want to do this anymore.

 

They didn’t have a safeword.

 

Joey didn’t need one, and Grant realized why, now.

 

He was taken for granted.

 

_What would Joey think, if he knew he understood?_

 

Joey was just using him, repeatedly, but without a single care for the man himself. It made Grant sick. He was just a toy. A terrified, lonely, and lost toy. The **step - tap - step** that slowly approached his office scared him out of his wits. His reflection in the window showed his neck bruised and blotchy, his hands shook as he stared at the red marks and pain ridden veins. He was certain his lips were swollen and maroon, and where Joey had slapped him, it stung like fire. He tried to call for help, from someone, anyone, but he had lost his voice, a gargling whisper replacing it. He tried again, tears brewing in his eyes, hot and frightened. He could hear himself this time, scratched and gravely. Like a broken record.

 

“How?” Joey asked, suddenly in the doorway, looking at him with the same disdainful pride and hunger. Grant felt cornered, fear edging into his limbs. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He attempted to articulate his concern, but Joey cut him off, tilting his head, eyes narrowed, sauntering over to him. _Please leave, please leave me, please leave me alone_. “You’re not wearing your tie.”

 

“No…” Grant wheezed, head screaming to step back, to run, to flee, to hurt and scream and _run_ , but his limbs were frozen in place. Joey trailed his long, thin, sharp fingers ( _everything about him was so… stretched and pointed_ ) down Grant’s jaw line, tugging his head up to make him look up at him. Questions swirled in his dark diaspore eyes, the normally reddish brown appearing a menacing scarlet. Grant found he couldn’t breathe again, but why not? There was nothing on his neck, no rope, no tie, no hand… nothing. Why couldn’t he breathe?! “Hk… hk….”

 

“Cohen?”

 

_So cold…._

 

“How do you need help? You screamed for it.”

 

_He could hardly breathe, let alone scream…._

 

“I’m sorry, Grant,” Joey sighed, the accountant finding himself shoved back, a hand creating a pressure on his neck, a rope drawn from his desk, quickly wound around him, especially tightening his hands to his sides. The way Joey tied him this time left his chest exposed, and his neck held down by the rope. Heat rushed into his stomach as Joey’s hand tightened and his boss began to undo his shirt. _No no no no…._ He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t _breathe_ , and his body **loved** it, already conditioned to the process and cycle; piss Joey off, get choked, and then get fucked, literally. But he didn’t do anything this time to make him mad! He didn’t want to, he didn’t want to do this anymore. Grant’s eyes were shut and tight, until a sharp pain tugged at his skin, and they flew open to see a knife carving into him, making odd markings and sigils. _Was that a pentagram_ ? He couldn’t do anything aside choke on air, Joey apparently finishing. A pause, then the knife plunged into the very center of the glyphs. Grant seemed to find his voice, and he _howled_ , then something rose in his throat, making him gag. “Since you like choking so much, I’ve decided to have it choke you forever.”

 

 _What was that taste? It wasn’t acid or vomit, it was… ink. Ink was welling in his throat and lungs, and he couldn’t_ **_breathe_ **.

 

“Any last words?”

 

They didn’t have a safeword.

 

He wouldn’t have even been able to use it anyways, at this point.

 

Joey always knew it would come to this.

 

_What would Joey think?_

 

Grant managed nothing but gargling screams of pain, melting out of the chair, writhing in agony and thrashing. Joey stood by and watched, and that hurt more than any of it. Grant realized again that he was nothing more than a joke, a toy to be used as a replacement for Henry, who Joey truly wanted.

 

He fell still after what felt like years of torment, gasping and moaning, ink bubbling out of his throat with every breath. He was so cold, so tired, and the whispers were everywhere. Instead of angry red scratches on his wrists was freezing, icy ink.

 

Joey turned off the recorder, turned around, and left without a single word nor comforting lie.

 

They didn’t have a safeword.

 

They never needed one.

 

According to Joey, of course.

 

**What would Grant think?**


End file.
